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When today is nothing outstanding to speak of, the future holds the most appeal, the most hope. It was all I had. Whether it was cocky self-possession or youthful delusion, I was positive that major-league baseball (preferably the New York Yankees) would inherit the best shortstop and power hitter in history. When that happened it would serve as a payback for all the unpleasantness I had to endure, all the atrocities I had to live. I was more than confident about this because I’d heard that things go in cycles. It stood to reason, then, that this was just the way things had to happen. Everything to follow had to be good. Thinking about that at my lowest moments made me feel better. Every struggle was worthwhile, every hardship felt like another step toward doing something I truly wanted to do. During my darkest moments, when it sometimes became necessary to remind myself that good things were on their way, I’d daydream about how fantastic it would be to make a six-figure salary doing something I enjoyed more than breathing.
I never felt so much alive as when I was on a makeshift baseball diamond. I was good. I knew it. When I stepped up to the plate, took my practice swings, and heard the scattered cheering and chanting of my name, an invigorating reassurance washed over those parts of me that were confused and hurt. As it was so aptly put by Sadaharu Oh, the legendary player for the Tokyo Giants, no one can stop a home run, and no one can understand what it really is. Therefore, he concluded, while you are on that diamond, it belongs to you only, and you are free from complication and demands. When I played baseball I felt that way; it made me feel that “someday” was more than a remote possibility. It was a promise. As the bat made contact and I’d watch the ball soar like a bullet over the fence, I advanced around the bases and felt every breath I took as the wind patted me firmly on the back.
My name is Tony. I’m fourteen—born in Manhattan in 1977, sneaking my way in with Saturday Night Fever and Debby Boone’s endless “You Light Up My Life.” That was the year that people were into genealogy—searching for their roots, thanks to the Alex Haley miniseries. It was apparent just what an impression it had made when, five years later, kindergarten registers bore names like Kizzy, LeVar, and Kunta Kinte. I was fortunate enough to see “Roots” recently, finishing up the last episode on the very day that Alex Haley died. I was deeply impressed at the legacy that he left while encouraging others to build their own legacies. That’s a great deal of what my generation is about: finding the real person, the real heritage, the real life.
It took some time before I grasped who the real me was, and there are times still when I have trouble talking about myself. Sometimes I feel I am speaking of a stranger I have met casually. I’ve struggled and cried and thought seriously about killing myself. I’ve decided now to disclose the private comers of my thoughts, because people truly don’t understand that being a kid and growing up is no easy task. I would love to stand face-to-face with the people who declare that childhood and adolescence are always the best times of a person’s life. I’d be tom between wanting to make those people understand, and kicking them in the shins for being the biggest idiots in the world. In the following pages I’ll introduce you to myself and other people my age who have grappled with today’s rough, complex, and sometimes very nasty world. I was in a progressive education program in which the kids were all considered high caliber and gifted. But we were all tom by some shortcoming or disappointment in ourselves, in our homes, or in the world. While still very young, we fought battles over identity, sexuality, and survival. We wrestled with burnout, family problems, and the indecision of whether to live as a child or an adult.
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